“Do you want to hear a story?” the man asked the well-groomed couple seated before him.

The woman quirked a penciled brow that betrayed her interest in the narrative this stranger intended with his enigmatic opener. She exchanged a quick look with her husband before saying, “Sure, Mister…er, what did you say your name was again?”

“Othukei,” he replied. “Solomon Othukei is my name. And I hope my story can make a difference.”

***

“I’m sorry but I cannot help you, Mr. Othukei,” the woman said firmly, standing from her seat as she spoke. She was tall and thickset, and her black hair was pulled severely back from her face in a coiffure that emphasized her broad forehead and high cheekbones. Stolid dark eyes stared out from above her short, thick nose.

The man they were staring at however remained seated. His weathered face looked up at her, his eyes were imploring. “Mrs. Salman, please, I need this. I need to know –”

“That may be so,” the woman cut in, “but I still cannot help you. Margaret signed a confidentiality agreement –”

“Damn the confidentiality agreement,” Solomon Othukei interrupted in turn. “She’s dying. Don’t you get it? We need this –”

“I get it –”

“Do you?” Neither person, it seemed, wanted the other to finish his words. Solomon had gotten to his feet, shooting up from his seat with a force that sent the chair toppling over backward. The move saw him towering over the woman and his big frame was tightly drawn with the hostility he felt. His jaw jutted angrily at her as he spat, “Do you, Mrs. Salman? Do you really?” (more…)